A man entered the room. He looked tired. His seat was taken so he leant against the wall, placing the book he carried in the inside pocket of his ill-fitting jacket. I noticed he had a handkerchief hanging from his breast pocket.
He walked into the room with a practised weariness. His uneasy gait was that of a man condemned, his head bowed in careful deference to all around him. His usual seat was occupied, an irritation only betrayed by the slightest tightening of his fist, clenched as it was, around the red-bound book he proceeded to slide into the inside pocket of his jacket, as he leant, awkwardly against the far wall. I remember the jacket. It was ill-fitting, sagging over is angular shoulders and in a final mockery, a cotton handkerchief protruded from his breast pocket drooping in silent sympathy.
His slow steps were like the resigned, reluctant shuffle an inmate returning to his cell. His entrance, far from an intrusion, was accompanied only by the soft exhausted sigh of the door closing behind him. His stooped head shirked from the others with the wary countenance of a scolded child. His usual berth, an unremarkable upholstered stool, was occupied by an equally unremarkable man. Upon noticing this offence, his sinuous fingers, tensed around the book he brandished, his waxy knuckles flashing white, then waning as he with a sharp adjustment of gangly limbs he concealed the book within the inside pocket of his jacket. I recall the jacket now with a curious certainty as one has when confronted with a familiar scent. It was plain enough, clearly well-worn and yet the cut ill-suited the man, seeming to pull his jagged frame toward the floor. Spindly shoulders offered little for the jacket to cling to, the sleeves hanging apologetically over his cuffs. His delicate frame propped against the wall, a sparse scaffold, dull and colourless save for the pure-white dash of his handkerchief, a seemingly unnoticed escapee from the confines of the jacket.
He walked into the room with the manner of one shopping in Iceland; a reluctant stride, the very environment draining, sucking the colour from his soul. He had a face like a bag of spanners and posture that testified to a lack of enthusiasm for yoga. His demeanour towards the others was like that of a pregnant nun walking through a convent. I observed his regular perch was currently being perched upon by another. He regarded this development with the enthusiasm one usually reserves for unanticipated surgical complications, and yet, constrained his reaction to merest adjustment, tightening his vice like grip around the book-the solitary hint of any wit or breeding-held closely by his side. I observed him then lower the book into the chasm between the breasts of his jacket; his careful motion was that of a man whom, when posting a letter, feels compelled to immerse his hand far into the pillar box, as far his anatomy will allow, lest some unseen cavity or snare diverts his missive. His next move was to lean against the far wall. This was no relaxed slump; it was as if he doubted the walls capacity (or perhaps enthusiasm) for holding him and was braced accordingly, bristling with unease. His limbs seemed to have been drawn by a child with a greater aptitude for science than art, crumpled and locked in equally unnatural measures. I remember his jacket and dwell on it now. Like a pylon on a hillside it was an ugly addition, bringing to mind images of tailor shops staffed by fools, bullies or animals. Its sizing was unhelpfully generous like a gallon of cream on slice of pie. His gaunt craggy shoulders looked to escape skyward from the jacket, whilst the sleeves had spotted something of note on the carpet and stretched towards it. The tension between the room and the man drowning in his jacket cast a scene of savage blandness punctuated only by a white flag of surrender. A handkerchief-an unwitting conspirator- cruelly hanging from his treacherous breast pocket.
